Its
gentle cadence, by tender warmth, afire our mind-cores;—this war ventures, as
cryptic elation, but found this feature smiling: those song-deserts, at aches
our knees, to conjure pure presence; this essence of thieves, our kettles
thrumming, our territorial sadness: if but to fly, or but to dream, I’d picture
us secluded—our remote island, enthralled by mercy, at quintessence our kind
tyranny: our mental ponds, our ducks with geese, our squirrels ravishing
nutmeg; as children gallop, or hearts rapture, to feel by breath our wings; as
sung our hymn, our midday flowers, this lethargic ambition…as fumbled
cosmo-pinks, our turquoise daisies, our misty-eyed visions—this space of
soul-works, this opera as churns graffiti, such pottery planting our aches. [I’m
wells to lights, our lightfast resilience, at spaces those memories. I’m hearts
to pains, avoiding sore thoughts, as adding coals to his engine; this miracle
bleeding, by weather that name, at tired hours disputing our flame: as muscles
spasm; that inner growth-pain; this hankering for wingspan—those curry eyes, to
explode taste-buds, our inner yearnings that mouthpiece. I’m a-cappella joys,
as a-cappella woes, at a-cappella springs: those Baroque ideals, this fury to
music, our bridges meshing with madness—that tender chorus, or such concerto
beauty, our spiritual duets—as lives his life, to curry our souls, our
resonance by fires. We die motifs, as tugged asunder, our hearts refusing
clearance—as residing such flame, our inner physics, our nocturne dialogues—as
wounds bleed, our achy joints, our contemporary Exercises—this voice as spinning, our silence as confusion, this
web as immortal—to fly our courses, our memories as opuses, our stage-drama as
internal: this one-hearted sphinx, our hourly interludes, this motion as
motivation—if but our quintet, those miraculous wounds, this symphony of
strings]…to stars by tempo…to waves as timbre…our song distinguishes
heartache…as never he sung, as never she cried, our temblors as sacrifices:
this city quakes, printed upon chi-thoughts, or quilted beneath sheer
interests—to hear those leaves, those tiny sounds, or to muse upon
caterpillars—this hour to soul-hearts, this sculptress asunder, our exotic
contemplations—as fire rolls, our boulders crumble, if but this passion in
time. {We send thoughts, this majestic reality, at sudden, an inner presence;
this deep sensation, as alive with lights, or sullen meditation—as sending
feelings, this marvelous splendor, our mental halos—if but to fly, while feral
an infant, our sublime studies: those cultic ripples; that invisible tiara;
those agog tugging(s)—as shifting moods, our firebrand souls, this
compassionate piano—as luminous key-thoughts, our typing of literature, our
thunderstorm-hearts—as rising in essence, to outsoar doubts, this flaming
fire-skull}. We’re deep a chamber, this physic-sanctum, imbued by
mental-whispers—that achy desire, to court pure radiance, while cautious our
linchpins: those drowsy eyes; that infinite riddle; this approach as activity—while
driving soul-locks, that attic-circuit, such as nectar to infants: that sagic
movie, our billows through lights, this thought-filled locket.
